


The shooting of Sherlock Holmes

by TheBritishBourbon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reactions and actions of different characters as they hear about the shooting in Magnussen's apartment. Set during HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

**The Shooting of Sherlock Holmes**

**Lestrade**

 

Lestrade was not on duty when the call came through. In fact, he had just finished, and was looking forward to an evening in front of the television with a cool beer, alone with his solitude. Great.

He would remember the moment well; turning off his computer, shrugging on his jacket, checking his phone for messages, when suddenly Donavon had burst through his office door, looking shocked and out of breath.

“Sir, there’s been a shooting at Sir Charles Augustus Magnussen’s private apartment.” Oh right, Magnussen ( _‘big powerful man who likes newspapers, yeah?’_ ).

“Not my division now, Donovan; I’m off duty.”

She’d smirked with dark humour, “Oh but you’ll never guess who the victim was.”

“Who?” Lestrade had asked impatiently; he wanted to get home!

She’d almost had a satisfying smirk on her face, “It’s the Freak!”

Lestrade had dropped his phone.

                                                                         ***

There had been many times over the years when Sherlock had gone out on his own on a dangerous case without Lestrade’s say so and nearly got himself injured or killed, but this was the first time something very serious had actually happened, and there was nothing Lestrade could have done about it, seeing as it was Sherlock’s own private case.

He had rushed straight to the hospital after Donovan had broken the news to him mirthfully. He had tried phoning John on the way, but he had not picked up. He had been told that John had been with Sherlock, and could sympathise the pain that John must be feeling right now. Sure, Sherlock had been a complete git the most of the time, not even bothering to learn Lestrade’s first name, but he still thought of the man as a friend, cared for him and everything. Hell, he had seen Sherlock as the recovering junkie, and that experience had given him the instinct to care for Sherlock, though he hid it more often than not.

                                                                          ***

Now he was waiting at the reception desk, after asking the receptionist if one Sherlock Holmes had been admitted. She had been reluctant to part her information with him, Lestrade not being family and all, but a quick flash of his Police badge had changed her mind. Lestrade kept checking his phone for texts from John, but there was never any there.

“He’s still in surgery right now, but you can wait in the waiting room.” The receptionist said to him, over tired and dreary.

“Okay, thanks.” Lestrade made his way swiftly to the waiting room, a small area filled with plastic chairs and a coffee machine. And there, sat in one of the chairs, hunched over and tense was John Watson.

“John.” Lestrade called, and the other man looked up, worry lines etched into his face, and a look of hopelessness in his eyes.

“Greg.” He said, sounding surprised, “How did you …?”

“I’d just come off duty when the call came through. _Christ_ , John, how bad is it?”

Of course he didn’t really have to ask; the look in John’s eyes said it all. “He was shot in the chest, Greg; he’s been in surgery for hours…. _God: this is a bloody mess_! We should never have gone to Magnussen’s office!” John got up, still hunched over, running his hands over his eyes.  Lestrade stared at him sympathetically.

“You didn’t have to come Greg, really, there was no need.” John said after a moment, looking gratefully at Lestrade.

“I couldn’t leave you here alone worrying after the bloody idiot, could I?” John gave him a miserable smile. “And anyway, I couldn’t sit at home knowing all the while that this was happening.” Lestrade added; his worry and concern suddenly overwhelming him.

Both men sat down, staying in a silent vigil for their friend for a few minutes. Around them, the sounds of life continued in the wailing of babies and the nattering of hundreds of voices.

“Where’s Mary?” Lestrade asked. It would have probably been better for John to have his wife here with him, awaiting news, instead of Greg.

“I’ve tried phoning her for what feels like hundreds of times now, but she’s not picking up. I’ve left messages, so she may turn up at any minute.” The two elapsed into silence again, John’s uneasiness palpable in the room. Lestrade checked his phone again, just for something to do, pushing down his own apprehension, desperately trying to think of something to say that might appease John’s emotions for a moment.

“He’ll be alright, you know. Couldn’t stand missing the chance to drive us up the wall.” Was what he settled with a few minutes later, words cutting through a dense silence.

John looked over at him, eyes tired and bloodshot, but with a slight smirk on his face. “He bloody well better be.”

The two men elapsed into a tense silence again.

                                                                                  ***

 

 

A large amount of disgusting coffee later, a doctor finally appeared. Lestrade’s heart had jumped into his throat, and John had paled considerably. Both men stood up. The doctor informed them Sherlock had flat lined, but by some miracle had pulled through and was now stable ( _‘Oh, thank God’_ ). John had practically slumped into the chair, sighing with relief and exhaustion.

“Good, now I can bloody kill him.” He muttered good humouredly, and Lestrade snickered. John rubbed his hands over his eyes “ _Christ_ , Greg, he flat lined. He can’t do things halfway, can he?”

Lestrade shrugged, “He’s Sherlock, why would he bother getting shot in the first place if he couldn’t scare us like that?”

John nodded, smirking slightly.

                                                                                 ***

Not long after a nurse came through telling them they were allowed to see him, and they were led into a posh private room, probably courtesy of Mycroft (how the man already knew Lestrade could only guess). The door closed behind them, and they were left with Sherlock, tubes and machinery surrounding him, lying in a hospital bed. Pale was an understatement, his dark hair contrasting sharply with the colour of his skin. Sheets came up to his waist, but the bandage covering the offensive bullet hole was visible, and Lestrade shuddered slightly upon seeing it. Sherlock was unconscious, breaths deep and even, oxygen prongs under his nose.

“Oh my god…” John trailed off. This was probably something he had never wanted to see. Lestrade felt the same. John walked over to the monitors, checking Sherlock’s vitals. “He’s alright...” He muttered, “He’s gonna be fine.” John laughed breathlessly, head hanging in relief. Lestrade breathed out, running his hands through his hair.

John took one more look at his best friend before turning to Lestrade. “I need to call Mary, and Mrs Hudson, actually; she needs to know now that he’s stable.”

Lestrade nodded, “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry mate, I’ll stay here.”

John nodded his thanks, and left quickly, probably wanting to bring better news to his wife and….. Not so good news to Mrs Hudson. Lestrade sat down in a chair by Sherlock’s bed, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor. The noise was as good as music. Through the window, a fierce sunlight was shining through, heralding a new day. Lestrade was due at work in a couple of hours; he was looking forward to _that_ after a sleepless night of worry and uncertainty. A beam of light shone upon Sherlock’s pale face, but he didn’t wake; sedated the nurse had said.

Lestrade took this chance when he was alone with an oblivious Sherlock to…no, no take photos (that would come later, when Sherlock was feeling slightly better), but to vent his emotions.

“Blood hell, you idiot.” He directed at Sherlock, feeling a bit better already after the name calling, “John and I can’t leave you alone, can we?” he paused for a moment, looking down at his hands for a moment before staring at the bandaged wound on Sherlock’s chest, taking in the reality of it all. “I’m bloody glad I don’t have to tell Donovan you’re dead, mate; I don’t think I could have stood the look on her face.” He shook his head, looking back at Sherlock’s face. “And I don’t think I could’ve gone through it again, and I don’t think John could too, so cheers for that, mate, cheers for not dying. That was bloody decent of you.”

It took a moment of hesitation and a lot of mental debate before Lestrade quickly patted Sherlock’s hand, drawing his own hand back hastily. At that moment John came back in, and Lestrade stood up briskly, feeling embarrassed even though it was only John.

“Alright?” He asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. John nodded, looking at Sherlock whilst putting his phone back in his pocket, reassuring himself his best friend was still okay(ish).

“Yeah, Mary’s on her way, and Mrs Hudson says she’ll pop round later; she’s going to get him flowers.” Lestrade chuckled at Mrs Hudson’s motherly kindness towards Sherlock.

“I’m sure he won’t appreciate them at all.” He said.

John smiled briefly, “That’s what she said, but he’s not really in a position to protest, so why shouldn’t she?”

Lestrade chuckled again, nodding his agreement. A few minutes of silence followed, in which John went to check Sherlock’s vitals again while Greg stood awkwardly around, feeling as though he was intruding on something quite personal. He was friends with both Sherlock and John, sure, but the two had this sort of…..bond ( _‘okay, this isn’t soppy Greg’_ ) that remained through everything, even when Sherlock had faked his death and put John through unnecessary grief.

Checking his watch for no reason Greg announced, “Well, I should really go; work calls. I’ll umm… have to take a statement once he’s….” Lestrade trailed off.

John nodded from where he was sat by Sherlock’s bed, understanding what Lestrade hadn’t said. “Sure Greg, yeah.”

“Alright…” Greg went to leave, and his hand was on the door handle when John called out.

“Greg.” Lestrade turned around. “Thanks for coming and, you know...being there.”

Greg smiled. “No worries mate. See you later. Call me if anything changes.”

John smiled back, “Yeah, yeah, I will. See you.”

                                                                           ***

It was a highlight to a rather scary and anxiety filled day when Lestrade got to tell Sally Donovan that Sherlock would survive and recover, and reprimanding her for her obvious glee when the situation had been so serious. He was thankful to John; letting him stay with him. He had shut Greg out almost completely when Sherlock had been ‘dead’, and the feeling of painful obliviousness was one that Lestrade did not want to feel again. He knew that Sherlock would be fine, and that, for now, was enough for him.


	2. Mrs Hudson

**Mrs Hudson**

She was woken up by the ringing of her phone, whilst a bright sun shone from outside her drawn curtains. Sighing, she slowly rose from her bed, being careful of her hip, and grabbing her dressing gown from the peg on the door she walked as quickly as she could to her phone in the kitchen. Unless it was a cold caller, it must be important if someone was phoning her at _this_ hour.

“Hello?” She answered, fighting down a yawn.

“Mrs Hudson, hi.” John sounded choked up and tired; this sent a sense of dread through Mrs Hudson.

“John? What’s the matter?” ( _‘Oh god, something’s happened to one of my boys’_ )

“It’s umm….it’s Sherlock, Mrs Hudson he’s ermm…he’s been shot.” From the tone of John’s voice Mrs Hudson could tell this was completely serious. She was fully awake now, shock eating at her brain.

“Oh god, how is he?”

“He’s only just got out of surgery, but he’s pulled through. He’s asleep at the moment.” Mrs Hudson felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Oh, John.” His name came out as a sob.

“It’s okay, Mrs Hudson, he’s going to be okay.” John’s relief was evident, and Mrs Hudson could empathise with John, feeling pity for him; having to through all this alone.

“Oh, John,” She repeated, “Right, I’ll be over there as soon as I can.” John gave her the name of the hospital and she was just about to put down the phone, sending her love, when she added as an after thought, “I’ll bring some flowers; to brighten up his room.” John had sounded rather amused when he’d said farewell, and it occurred to Mrs Hudson that Sherlock probably wouldn’t have cared about flowers to brighten up his room. _‘Well tough, he’s going to get flowers if he insists on getting shot.’_

_***_

Mrs Hudson had to sit down for a moment whilst getting ready, the full realisation of what had happened hitting her like a brick. Sherlock, _her_ Sherlock, had been shot and had had to have surgery. It had been that bad. Mrs Hudson had always had a fear every time Sherlock and John had gone out on a dangerous case that one of them would end up seriously injured, and that time had finally come. She had always imagined that she would feel a crippling anxiety, but this was so much worse than that. John had told her that Sherlock would be fine, and for that she was beyond grateful, but the fact that this had actually happened was overwhelming. Pulling herself together she hastily wiped away her tears and getting up from her bed she rushed to the hospital.

                                                                           ***                    

It took her a long while to actually get to the hospital, traffic along with having to stop for flowers, and by the time she arrived the sun had risen well into the sky. After inquiring where Sherlock’s room was, she climbed a large flight of stairs to find John standing by the railing at the top, looking haggard but relieved.

“Mrs Hudson!” He exclaimed, looking surprised to see her.

“Oh John.” She gave him a big hug while trying to not to squish her flowers, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“How is he, John?” she asked once they’d pulled away from each other. John nodded, “Yeah, yeah he’s as fine as he can be, Mary’s with him at the moment but she’ll be out in a mo.”

“And how are you, John?”

“Me? I’m fine, Mrs Hudson. Just a bit…” John trailed off, looking down. Mrs Hudson patted his arm, knowing how his unfinished sentence would have ended. It must’ve been hard for John to describe what he was feeling.

“Nice flowers,” John said after a moment of silence, and Mrs Hudson inspected her choice: rhododendrons.

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll appreciate them very much.” She replied sarcastically, and John smiled ( _‘that’s better’_ ).

The door behind them opened and Mary came out, looking a little shaken but relieved.

“Mrs Hudson.” She said in the same tone as John had.

“Alright?” John asked, putting an arm around her.

“Yeah, I think he went to sleep again; he was really out of it.”

Mrs Hudson’s stomach gave a pang of worry instinctually.

“John, I’m going to go down to the cafeteria for a coffee.” Mary said, “are you coming or…?”

“I’ll just stay with Mrs Hudson and check up on him and then I might.” John didn’t sound keen on leaving Sherlock for long, but with Mary being the angel she was she understood completely. Mrs Hudson smiled seeing Mary nod and give John a brief kiss ( _‘oh, they are so perfect for each other’_ ). Shooting Mrs Hudson a quick smile, she left for the cafeteria.

“Okay?” John asked her. She nodded, and they both entered Sherlock’s room.

                                                                             ***

A steady beeping welcomed them, and tears welled up in Mrs Hudson’s eyes as she set her eyes upon Sherlock. He was far too pale and slack, almost sinking into the bed. His chest rose and fell evenly while he slept. And then she noticed the bandage.

“Is that where….?”

John nodded, “yeah,” It was far too close to Sherlock’s heart for Mrs Hudson’s liking, and John’s too apparently. Mrs Hudson went to sit down in the chair by his bed while John checked Sherlock’s vitals. Mrs Hudson placed the flowers in a convenient vase on the bedside table.

“There, that’s nice.” She said, rearranging them a little.

John smiled, “Lovely, Mrs H.”

After a moment, Mrs Hudson turned to him, taking a deep breath. “John, how did it happen?”

John crossed him arms, looking at Sherlock before beginning. “Well, we’d broken into Magnussen’s office, he’d disappeared upstairs, I heard a gunshot, and I went up there and ermm… I found him.”

Mrs Hudson gave into the urge to grab hold of Sherlock’s hand, and the man didn’t protest, knocked out by the drugs. “Do you know who shot him?” She asked.

John shook his head, “No, not yet, but we will.” John sounded angry and tense, and Mrs Hudson felt extremely bad for the man; his best friend had by some miracle returned from the dead and now he had almost gone back there again. For good this time.

“John,” She said softly, “go to Mary, I’ll be fine here.”

John smiled at her, grateful for her empathy, “You sure, Mrs H?”

“Of course, you go John.” He smiled at her, and with one last look at Sherlock from the door, he left.

                                                                               ***

Mrs Hudson sat there for a while, not talking but listening to the steady beat of the heart monitor instead, stroking Sherlock’s hand slightly. It was strange to see him not talking or moving, but just lying there.

“Oh you silly boy.” She muttered, “Getting yourself shot like that. Think what you’ve done to poor John, making him worry. Never do that again, young man.” Sherlock just kept sleeping. “You have to be nice to me for at least a month now, Sherlock, and I can make you come down for a cup of tea anytime I like.” She ordered, even though Sherlock couldn’t protest. She stared at him for a moment, at his far too pale and lax face and found herself suddenly breaking down into sobs. Her Sherlock had been shot. Shot. The man could be incredibly rude and aggravating at times, she herself being victim to some of his many attacks, and yes, he did absolutely ridiculous things, but not even Sherlock Holmes deserved to be shot. Underneath all that…..Sherlockness he could be really charming and human, something Mrs Hudson had no trouble in finding in him.

At the sound of Mrs Hudson’s choked sobs Sherlock’s head shifted to the side a little and a small frown formed on his forehead. Mrs Hudson looked up with a hopeful face, “Sherlock?” she asked. The detective’s eyes opened a sliver, looking unfocussed and glassy. Clearly Sherlock was not all there. Mrs Hudson gasped slightly, her sobs still continuing, and Sherlock’s gaze dragged slowly over to where she sat. She squeezed his hand tightly and he frowned again, trying to discern who it was that was sat next to him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson smiled slightly, “Just go back to sleep, dear, I’ll be right here.” It felt strange to be comforting Sherlock like that, but he looked like he needed it. Sherlock’s eyes closed without resistance, and the frown soon disappeared as he slipped peacefully into sleep. Mrs Hudson smiled at the sight before gently reaching up and brushing a lock away from where it had fallen across Sherlock’s forehead.

She stayed there, stroking his hand gently, for what seemed like hours until John came in. He smiled at the sight of Mrs Hudson’s affection for Sherlock. John could tell she treated Sherlock like a son (and John too really) and he was glad he had given her the time to be with him.

Mrs Hudson left not long after, giving John a tight hug and the sleeping Sherlock a brief kiss on the cheek, feeling content that Sherlock would, in time, be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, next up is Mycroft!  
> Also, here is a link to my tumblr page :) http://thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com/


	3. Mycroft

**Mycroft**

Mycroft was still at the office when Anthea received the message. She knocked quickly on his door and entered without permission. Mycroft didn’t reprimand her, for the look on her face told him it was urgent.

“What is it?”

  
“It’s your brother, sir. He’s been shot and is currently in surgery. The situation is critical.” Mycroft’s pen slid from his fingers, and he stared at Anthea without seeing her. His little brother had finally done it; he had finally gotten himself seriously injured. Mycroft had been vexed at Sherlock since ‘the high’ incident at Baker Street, but now, now he was worried beyond belief.

His little brother had been injured before, of course. As a child he would always be getting into scrapes, much to the despair of their mother. And during his time as a druggie he had almost overdosed. And of course, on cases there had been the odd precarious situation, but never anything like this.

“Sir?” Anthea asked, phone in hand. Mycroft pulled himself from his thoughts.

“Where did this incident occur?” He asked, voice perfectly calm.

“In the private apartment of Mr Magnussen. John Watson is with him” ( _‘So these are the consequences of Sherlock’s actions’_ ) Sherlock should never have taken the Magnussen case, Mycroft had warned him so that very morning. “We are still looking for the identity of the assailant.” Anthea continued.

“Thank you. Please keep me updated on my brother’s condition.” Anthea nodded and departed. As much as Mycroft would have liked to have rushed to the hospital in that instant, work was a demanding creature; there were pressing matters he had to attend to, things that he could not put off, a meeting with the Prime Minister the next morning for starters.  Mycroft put his head in his hands. Worry was overwhelming him, blinding him from logic and sense.

But then…Mycroft was not the one who should be there, he was a rubbish big brother. Sherlock would not want him to be the one there; he would care little either way whether Mycroft was there for him at his most desperate moment. Mycroft could help him fake his death, but he couldn’t save him from it. Only one man could.

Raising his head Mycroft swiftly grabbed his phone from the desk and dialled John Watson’s number.

_“Mycroft, you’ve heard then?”_

“Of course. I presume you shall stay with him?”

 _“What? Yes, of course._ Jesus _, Mycroft, I don’t even know if he will survive.”_

Mycroft could not ignore his suffocating worry. “My brother would be a fool if he didn’t. I’ve always thought him an idiot, but he’s not that foolish.”

John hesitated, _“Mycroft, for God’s sake stop joking, your brother…oh my god, he could be dying Mycroft!”_

The evident fear and worry in John’s voice was infective, even to the Ice Man. “I know, John. You must be there with him, whatever the outcome.”

 _“Of course.”_ John sounded choked up, _“do you want me to phone when we know?”_

“That won’t be necessary, thank you John. Stay with him.” And with that Mycroft hung up the phone.

It was better if John was there with his brother, Mycroft was sure of the good doctor’s loyalty to his brother.

Mycroft tried to focus on his paperwork, finding it much harder than usual to separate himself from his feelings. He would have to be the one to phone their parents, whatever the outcome of Sherlock’s surgery. The thought of having to face the worst news and then deliver it was unappealing to say the least.

“Oh Sherlock..” he muttered, putting his head in his hands once again.

                                                                         ***

Mycroft did not even bother going home that night, now behind on his work and knowing that sleep would be eluding him that night. The clock on his desk read 5:00 AM, and still there was no news. Mycroft sat stiffly in his chair, with rumpled suit and rumpled hair, brain betraying him and taunting him with the idea that Sherlock might be dead. _Dead_. His little brother couldn’t be. He couldn’t.

Just then a knock came sharply upon the door, and Anthea came in once again. Mycroft tensed in his chair.

“Sir; your brother, he’s pulled through and is now stabilised.” Mycroft visibly slumped, exhaling loudly. “But I think you should know sir, he flat lined once.” Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. His brother had not been foolish enough to die for good, but now Mycroft knew for sure that he himself was the clever one; _‘flat lining was unwise, brother mine.’_

“Thank you, Anthea, arrange for the driver to take me to the hospital after my meeting with the PM.”

“Certainly sir.” She nodded and left the room. Mycroft sat back in his chair, smoothing down his suit and hair. That was a night of anxiety and emotions that he never wanted to experience again. He was  unfamiliar with such feelings, and it made him uncomfortable. Damn his little brother.

                                                                              ***

The meeting with the Prime Minister had not gone as well as Mycroft had hoped, being slightly sleep deprived didn’t help, but he couldn’t find the energy to care about that right now. All he could really focus on was Sherlock. It was so typical of his brother to distract him from his work, but what could he do? He had had put up with it for most of his life, and was thankful, in a way, that he would have to put up with it in the future as well.

His car pulled up in front of the hospital and Mycroft exited swiftly and walked up to the receptionist and in a commanding tone asked, “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes, I’m his brother.” The woman stared at him for awhile, and Mycroft’s patience was wearing thin by the time she gave him the room number.

He walked quickly to the room, umbrella swinging from his hand. It was dimly lit when he entered, the blinds shut and only the bedside light switched on. John sat next to Sherlock’s bed, reading a book. He looked up as Mycroft entered.

“Mycroft, I didn’t expect to see you here.” John sounded surprised.

“Well, my brother was distracting me from my work so I thought I’d visit.” John’s smiled at Mycroft’s attempt at lightening the mood, putting his book on the bedside table. Mycroft stepped further into the room, taking a good long look as his brother. Far too pale, wires appearing everywhere, face relaxed in sleep, the offensive gunshot wound covered by a bandage. Mycroft sighed, standing at the end of his brother’s bed.

“Do you want a moment?” John asked.

“No, it’s alright John; I just came to check on him.” John nodded, then returned to his book. Mycroft leant on his umbrella, still staring at his brother. He really should leave, he’d come and seen his brother, done what he’d wanted in order to  appease his mind, but he found he couldn’t. A part of him wanted to speak to Sherlock, to reprimand him for making him worry so much.

John looked up at Mycroft, seeing him still standing there. Catching onto the mood he put down his book again and stood up. “I’m just going for a coffee, I’ll leave you with him.” Mycroft nodded, strangely grateful for John’s intuition.

                                                                                  ***

When John had left Mycroft moved from his leaning position and sat in the chair John had just vacated, leaning his umbrella on the arm. His brother remained still and silent, the beeping of the heart monitor echoing every beat of his heart. He looked peaceful, lying there. Well tough; Mycroft needed to speak to his brother.

“ **Sherlock.** ” He called, leaning forwards in the chair. There was no reaction from his brother; it was no surprise considering the drugs that were in his system.

“ **Sherlock.** ” He repeated. Still nothing. “ **Sherlock.** ” _‘Ah, success!’_

Sherlock’s eyelids flickered and his head turned towards the sound of Mycroft’s voice slightly. Mycroft had to call his brother’s name again before glazed eyes slowly opened and looked towards him. Sherlock winced at the light of the bedside lamp, so Mycroft turned it off.

“That was a very foolish thing you did, Sherlock. I told you not to get involved with Magnussen. Heed my warning next time, brother dear.” Mycroft doubted his brother could make much sense of what he was saying, but it felt good to be saying it anyway. “I will have to call our parents, of course,” he continued, making sure Sherlock was still looking in his direction. “They’re going to be very cross with you, Sherlock. I am too. **Never** do this again.”

Mycroft sighed, sitting back in his chair. Sherlock blinked rapidly, then looked at his brother. “Mycr…….Where’s…..Redbeard…” he slurred before his eyes closed and he fell into sleep again. Mycroft smirked and smiled slightly at his brother’s incoherence, knowing it was just the drugs addling his brain. Redbeard. Mycroft’s smile grew wider at the thought of Sherlock’s childhood dog, the one thing that had made Sherlock really happy.

He sat staring at his brother sleeping form for a few moments more before he slowly got up from the chair. He still had important work to do, and he needed to phone their parents.

“Recover swiftly, brother mine.” He said, picking up his umbrella. He walked to the door, and, with one last look at his brother, he left quickly.

                                                                              ***

He met John, who was just returning from the cafeteria, on the way out.

“Mycroft, you were quick.” He stated. Mycroft smiled at John, tapping his umbrella on the ground.

“Yes, well there’s work to do and I’ve reprimanded him for getting shot so there’s no reason to be here any longer. I trust you will stay with him for awhile, John?”

John nodded, “Yeah, well, I’ve taken a couple of days off work to see him through the worst, but I’m sure he’ll have some more visitors.”

“Hmm, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John agreed, scratching the back of his head.

“Thank you, John, for being with my little brother.”

John’s eyebrows rose at Mycroft’s display of gratitude and almost….sentiment. “No problem, he’s my best friend so….”

Mycroft smiled once again, “Yes, quite. Well, I must be off; I need to phone our parents, they need to be informed.” He walked past John, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Right, see you.” John called from behind him, then Mycroft heard his footsteps walk off, back to his brother.

Mycroft was satisfied that his brother would recover from his shooting, and felt almost….moved by John’s loyalty to his brother after all the two had been through. Sherlock had had no one during his childhood, only Redbeard, and Mycroft, though he really _was_ a rubbish big brother, so Mycroft felt something stir in him at the idea that his brother had a _best friend_.

_‘Ugh, sentiment.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!   
> Tumblr blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


	4. Molly

**Molly**

Molly found out about Sherlock from the newspaper. She had been walking to work, passed the newsstand, all the newspapers on show, competing for the customer’s money, when she had spotted a shocking title: **DRUGGIE DETECTIVE SHOT**. She stopped short, gasping, irritating the power walking office worker behind her. She muttered a sorry, and then rushed over to the newspaper stand, buying a copy of the offensive newspaper, Sherlock’s face plastered across the front of it.

                                                                          ***

She made time to read it, sitting on a bench by her locker at St Bart’s. The article was decorated with a large picture of Sherlock, looking hawk-eyed and superior, while the contents read:

_Sherlock Holmes, the private detective famous for faking his own death, was shot last night in the office of newspaper tycoon Charles Magnussen. There has been no other news on the matter except for conformation that Holmes is in a stable condition in hospital. John Watson, Holmes’s friend and documenter of cases, who was with Holmes at the time of the shooting, was not available for comment. The identity of the shooter is unknown._

_A reliable source, however, has reported to our newspaper that the night before his shooting Holmes was to be found at a drug den, satisfying a nasty habit. A habit, we have been informed, he has once had trouble with years before, which now seems to have come back to torture him once more. A witness to Holmes’s bad habit had this to say: ‘He was getting well high, but he were still being a massive arse, doing his whole deducing thing, ya know?’_

_Only time will tell if the private detective will recover both from his shooting and from his drug habit._

The article went out to talk about some rubbish about Sherlock and this _Janine_ woman who was apparently his girlfriend. Molly sighed, throwing the paper on the bench and biting her lip. She couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed that this was the way she had found out about such a horrible thing that had happened to Sherlock. Her Sherlock. With that annoyance, however, came a crushing worry. She wanted to rush over to the hospital at that moment, but she was already supposed to be working. Sighing she left swiftly for the morgue, deciding to phone John at lunch.

                                                                            ***

Her phone call to John had been a quick one, the man sounding tired and croaky down the line. He told her that the shot had been near fatal, but that Sherlock had pulled through. She had shuddered at the thought that she may have seen Sherlock appearing in her morgue, somewhere that both of them had spent a lot of time together. It would’ve been so wrong to have had him lying there on the slab. So wrong. She had promised John she would come and visit after her shift, wishing once again she could’ve gone right away after hearing the pain in John’s voice when recalling his tale. ‘ _Sherlock you brilliant idiot._ ’

                                                                    ***

She found it hard to focus all afternoon, mind straying to thoughts of Sherlock, injured and lying in a hospital bed. He probably hated it. By the time her shift ended, she was practically running from the locker room and onto the streets of London, hailing the nearest cab. She had walked to work that morning, trying to clear her brain of the thoughts of how empty her apartment was without Tom.

Reaching the hospital she burst out of the cab, almost forgetting to pay the cabbie, and into the reception area. Having been given Sherlock’s room number, indentifying herself as a ‘close friend’, she walked swiftly up a large staircase and along to the designated room. Pulling her bag up onto her shoulder she knocked lightly on it before opening it a little. Peering inside she could make out the figure of John, stood by a blind covered window, the setting sun shining through the gaps. No light was on. He turned when he heard the door open, recognising her with a small smile. “Molly, hi.”

“Hello John, sorry I didn’t phone to say I was on my way.”

John waved off her apology, “No problem, Molly, please come in.” She entered cautiously, closing the door behind her. “He’s asleep I’m afraid, so they’ll be no verbal abuse for now.” Molly smiled at John’s joke, as he tried to comfort her. Molly came further into the room, and John motioned to the empty seat next to the bed. She sat down, bag dropping to the floor as she observed Sherlock. He was almost as pale as one of her corpses, and from the location of the bandage covering the wound Molly could tell that this had been serious. Very serious.

“Oh my god, John…” she muttered, “He almost looks like a corpse. Oh no, sorry! I meant that he’s just very pale… I didn’t mean...” John raised a hand, silencing her from her apologies.

“Molly, it’s fine, I know what you meant.”

The two fell into silence, both staring at their sleeping friend. Molly shifted slightly in the chair, thinking how beautiful Sherlock looked when he wasn’t insulting anyone or showing off, but was just looking peaceful.

“Molly, I’m so sorry that you had to find out from the newspapers.” John said, startling Molly from her thoughts.  She smoothed out her hair, “It’s fine John, it was just a little shocking.” It wasn’t alright, but John didn’t need that right now.

“Do you know if he’s going to make a full recovery?” she asked after a while. It was something that had been nagging her all day, the thought that her amazing, arrogant Sherlock might not recover. John crossed his arms over his chest, frowning slightly.

“The doctor’s are confident that he will, and it seems a miracle that he got through surgery, so we can only hope he keeps this up.”

Molly frowned, “A miracle?”

John coughed, “The idiot flat-lined once. I think he does it just to scare us.” Molly felt a pang in her stomach at the word ‘flat-lined’. She nodded to John, taking in a ragged breath. Staring at Sherlock for a while, she tried to organise all the thoughts in her head. She felt angry at Sherlock; for doing this and scaring John, scaring _her_. Angry that she could no longer be angry _at_ him after his the drug fiasco of the previous morning, but could only feel worry that something may yet happen, or that he may not recover. She needed _her_ Sherlock back, the Sherlock who would hide what he was feeling behind a wall of sarcasm that only she could see behind, who made her heart skip a beat when he looked at her a certain way, who had used her and treated her terribly, but when it came down to it had trusted her and admitted that she mattered all along. Her brilliant genius Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly a thought struck her.

“Shouldn’t his girlfriend be here?” She asked, not managing to keep the scorn and, _yes_ , slight jealousy, out of her voice. John looked up, frowning before realising who she meant.

“Oh Janine. Well actually she’s in hospital too; she got a slight concussion from an attack by Sherlock’s shooter.” Molly frowned in confusion “She’s Magnussen’s PA.” he explained.

“Oh.” Was all she said, looking down. John observed her for a minute.

“You know, she wasn’t really his girlfriend, he was only using her to get into Magnussen’s office.” Molly couldn’t help but feel relieved by this, and a little satisfied; she wasn’t the only woman Sherlock Holmes used. She nodded at John, “Good.” She said, and then turned her gaze to Sherlock.

She listened to the beeping of the heart monitor for a bit, and to her even that sounded beautiful. Sherlock’s breaths came in evenly, and she wished that she could grab his hand and hold it tight, but she couldn’t do that. Not in front of John. John.

Molly glanced up at him; the man was frowning hard and staring at the ground, lost in thought. Molly knew John was always worrying about Sherlock, but this must have been overwhelming. The fear Molly had felt as she read the newspaper article that morning was probably only a fraction of what John must have felt at seeing Sherlock shot and dying. Being Sherlock Holmes’s best friend must be an exhausting job, but one that Molly was so glad John had filled. Sherlock’s speech at John and Mary’s wedding had moved her to tears; she had never seen such gratitude from him. John had, in Sherlock’s own words, saved him. Saved him from loneliness, and from himself, and had taught him how to be more human. Something Molly was grateful for, as it meant she suffered less verbal abuse. Thank god for John.

“Err John?” Molly said, gaining his attention.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for being here for him, I know that it’s fine and that you’re happy to…well, not happy to but…..Just, thank you for not leaving him and sticking by him. Not just now, but…all the time. He didn’t really have any friends before he met you and I think he needed one, sometimes.”

John looked shocked by Molly’s thanks, feeling very moved by her words. “But he had you.” He pointed out. Molly shook her head, smiling sadly just a little.

“I don’t really count.”

Suddenly Sherlock stirred on the bed, breathing in sharply, his brow creasing.

“Sherlock?” John asked, coming closer to the bed. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open, gazing around the room. They were glassy from the drugs and probably exhaustion. Getting shot could be tiring. Sherlock’s sluggish gaze landed on Molly, and he frowned a little in concentration.

“Molly.” He slurred.

She smiled, “Hello, Sherlock. I heard what happened and I just popped by to see you…..” Sherlock stared at her still, blinking to get her in focus. “I think it was stupid of you, getting shot,” She continued, “and as soon as you’re better you have to make it up to John. And me, actually.” She broke off, feeling quite amazed at herself; that was the second time in two days she had reprimanded Sherlock Holmes. She felt quite empowered.

John smiled at Molly’s words; when they’d first met she had never been able to stand up to Sherlock, and now here she was telling him off while he just lay there. Not that he could really argue back very well.

“Molly,” Sherlock repeated, frowning once again. “You…were….my….mind…helped…you were….clever….”Molly stared at John, not making much sense of the words, but he just shrugged, whispering “It’s just the drugs.” Sherlock however was still trying to gather his words, and finally he muttered, “Molly….thank you…” before falling asleep once again, head resting back on the pillows.

Molly stared at him, a little shocked and surprised. _Those_ words had made complete sense, and yet she couldn’t believe that Sherlock had actually said them. Any remnants of anger were now swept away, and she smiled at her detective.

John too smiled warmly at Sherlock’s display of gratitude for Molly, he wasn’t sure why he was thanking her, but he knew it meant one thing. “You see Molly,” he said, and she stared up at him, smiling but confused, “You do count.”

Molly couldn’t help it; she blushed.

 

                                                                      


	5. Mr and Mrs Holmes

They have the _Les Miserables_ CD on repeat for what feels like the hundredth time when Mycroft’s call comes through. They are practicing their line dancing in the holiday home that Mycroft so kindly booked for them in Oklahoma. The jovial mood however is broken by the shocking and almost heart stopping news that Mycroft brings; Sherlock, shot, seriously injured, now stable. They both pale and Mrs Holmes has to compose herself before ordering Mycroft to get them on the next plane back to London. Their elder son tries telling them it is not necessary, that Sherlock wouldn’t even want them to visit, but she points out in a clipped and motherly manner that she is his mother and he has no choice in the matter. Mycroft, after a slight pause, books them onto the next flight.

They arrive in London as night is falling, a striking sun slowly sinking. They had gripped each other’s hands tightly on the plane, and they remain tightly gripped as a sleek black car pulls up for them. Their eldest son steps out, looking haggard and exhausted behind the stoic mask that seems permanently fixed on his face. He allows his mother to peck him on the cheek and hug him tightly, but only for a few seconds. Mycroft had _never_ been one for sentiment. He steps back from the car door and allows them to clamber in before following, and car moves swiftly away.

“How did this happen, Mycie?” Mrs Holmes asks while they move through the dense streets of London. Mycroft turns to look at her, phone in hand, looking slightly exasperated.

“ _Mycroft_ , mother. I have been told that Sherlock was working on a case when he got shot by an unknown assailant. Doctor Watson was with him and, I believe, has remained with him at the hospital all day.”

Mr and Mrs Holmes looked at each other, glad that one of their son’s had finally found such a firm friendship. While Mycroft had coped, Sherlock had never been able to find friends when he was younger, being taunted by others for his ‘freakish’ intellect and skills of deduction. He had been cast out by others, and his parents had bought him Redbeard in order to give him the companionship he needed, but that hadn’t ended well, and they’d watched in despair as their son had slipped into the ‘high functioning sociopath’ façade. But John Watson had been what their son had waited so long for, someone able to put up with all his quirks yet still stick by him. They knew Sherlock had never expected a friend, and it warmed their hearts to know of the existence of John Watson.

“Well, for goodness sake Mycie; have you not found this person yet? I should very much like to give them a-” Mrs Holmes exclaims as she turns back to their son, but he interrupts her with his superior voice.

“I reassure you, mother, that I have my best people on the job. My little brother has been shot, and I want justice.”

She looks at him for a minute, tears brimming in her eyes, before grabbing his hand in her own, free one. Mycroft looks alarmed. “Oh, Mycie,” She laments, “I am so glad he has you to look out for him, the silly boy could never manage on his own.” As a child, Sherlock had always been getting into trouble, much to his parents’ despair.

Mycroft gives her a tight lipped smile and pulls his hand away, grabbing his phone once more. “Hmm, well, I have made arrangements for you to be accommodated in a hotel near by, just in case you feel the need to irritate Sherlock further.”

Mrs Holmes huffed, “Yes, well I think I might.” After a moment she asked, “We are going to him now, I presume?”

Mycroft, tapping away on his phone, replied without looking her way. “Unfortunately the visiting hours are over, but I will be able to pull a few strings for _you_ , I expect. Excuse me.” And with that he put the phone up to his ear. Mr and Mrs Holmes shared a look, and squeezed their hands together even tighter. They were nearer to their son, the desperation to be with him clawing at both of their insides, yet they were frightened for what they might see.

When they reach the hospital Mycroft approaches the reception desk with a manner of superiority that makes Mr Holmes’s eyebrows rise. He says something to the nurse and she nods, looking slightly irritated. Swinging his umbrella in his hand Mycroft turns to his parents with that smile of his.

When they reach Sherlock’s room Mycroft pauses before opening the door. Mrs Holmes sighs with impatience.

“I should like to warn you that this….accident has taken its toll on Sherlock somewhat. You should be prepared.”  Mrs Holmes once again huffed, desperate just to see her son. She didn’t need Mycroft saying such things. Mr Holmes put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and Mycroft pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was shrouded in darkness, the blinds closed and the light off. Mycroft headed over the bedside table and switched on the lamp, a stark white light filling the room. Mr and Mrs. Holmes stood by the door, Mr Holmes’s hand still on his wife’s shoulder. She had one hand covering her mouth whilst his stomach had dropped. Both of their hearts missed a beat, as they took in the sight of their youngest son. He was lying still in the bed, skin a shade of white unlike either of them had ever seen. Wires and machines surrounded him, and there, on his chest, they could see where the bullet had ripped into their son. Mrs Holmes took a shaky step towards the bed.

“He looks so pale….” She drifted off, for once speechless. She always had something to say, much like Sherlock, but, in the light of these terrible circumstances, both of them were now silent.  

“Sherlock lost quite a lot of blood from the ordeal, with major internal bleeding.” Mycroft stated, and once again Mrs Holmes huffed; Mycroft really needed to work on his bedside manner.

Mycroft stood in the corner of the room whilst his mother sat on his brother’s bed, placing one hand on his ashen cheek and softly tracing the line of his cheekbone, minding the line of the oxygen prongs. Mr Holmes once again squeezed her shoulder before sitting down in the chair next to the bed. He observed his youngest son, taking a deep breath, sitting forward with his hands beneath his chin.

The last time Sherlock had ended up in hospital was almost ten years ago for a drug overdose. Mr Holmes had felt the gut wrenching agony of worry that, unlike his sons, he couldn’t suppress, pondering if this had been an accident or on purpose, and why Sherlock would have gone to such extremes. His wife had been furious (he normally always left her to be the angry parent), but it had been obvious in her eyes the concern and shame she’d felt.

 _“We should’ve been aware, we could’ve helped him and stopped this from happening,”_ She had muttered into his chest whilst they had stood by their son’s bedside.

Sherlock, in Mr Holmes’s eyes, would always appear as the vulnerable little boy, and right now, sleeping in a hospital bed, he once again looked so much younger. He put a hand on the mattress, wanting to hold his younger son in some way, but for Sherlock’s own self respect and to prevent him from embarrassment in front of his older brother, he refrained.

His wife, however, took a tight grasp of Sherlock’s hand, minding the IV line and rubbed circles into it with her thumb. Sherlock stirred slightly, but did not wake.

“It’s so close to his heart, Mycroft,” She all but croaked, almost in tears. Mycroft took a deep breath and observed his brother closely before replying.

“That may be so Mother, but he has pulled through and will, hopefully, make a full recovery.” Mycroft would never tell them that his brother had flat-lined. Never.

A silence followed that was only disrupted by the beeping of the heart monitor, Mr and Mrs Holmes closely watching their youngest son. Mycroft coughed, tapping his umbrella on the ground. “I shall give some time alone with him; my car will be outside when you are ready to leave.” He went to the door, and only when he had almost left did his mother call out to him. He turned to look at her.

“Mycroft, is he sleeping or…?” _Sedated_ was the word that went unsaid.

“My brother has been given a large amount of morphine for the pain.” Mycroft replied.

“But will he wake?”

“Of course,” Mycroft sounded surprised at her question, “I found that shouting at him seemed to get his attention.”

Mrs Holmes looked astounded. “Mycie!”

Mycroft smiled and laughed a little, “I was only saving you the bother, Mother.”

Mrs Holmes sat straighter up, as if suddenly seeing her eldest son for the first time and she smiled with pride and gratefulness at her son. “Thank you, Mycie.”

He tapped his umbrella on the ground, rolled his eyes and left the room muttering, _“Mycroft.”_

Mr Holmes smiled for a second at Mycroft’s exasperation.

They sat there for a while, neither of them talking but just staring at their youngest son as he slept. Mr Holmes peered around at the monitors surrounding him, not understanding what any of them were saying, but it seemed to look positive.

“I wish we didn’t have to see him like this again. He does it to worry us, doesn’t he?” his wife said after awhile, no longer on the verge of tears but sounding extremely overwhelmed.

Mr Holmes took hold of his wife’s vacant hand, and squeezed it as tight as she was squeezing Sherlock’s. “I don’t think he intended to get shot, dear.” He said quietly, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“That’s not what I meant! I meant that…that… I just wish that our boys could be safer. Why didn’t he become a scientist, or something? He puts himself into terrible danger. And after all that Moriarty business….” She trailed off, unable to express her feelings into words.

“He is doing what he loves, and it makes him happy. And if he is happy then why should we stop him?” he reasoned with her, and she looked at him with the love in her eyes he had not seen since they were newly weds.

“Oh…..” She smiled at him, bringing his hand to her face, “Sometimes you are cleverer than I am.” He smiled back at her, remembering for a minute just how beautiful her eyes were.

This romantic moment was broken, however, by the stirring of their son, whose head turned to the side a little as a frown formed on his face. They both turned their attention to him, Mrs Holmes squeezing his hand tighter. Eyes flickered open, resting on her, and Sherlock blinked a few times, taking a few minutes to recognise the anxious face of his mother in front of him, mind fizzled by the morphine.

“Mother…” He muttered, and she smiled at him, removing her hand from his and placing it on his cheek again.

“Sherlock, how are you feeling?” She asked softly, as Sherlock’s gaze landed on his father, who also gave him a small smile. Despite being drugged up and not really with it, Sherlock still managed to roll his eyes at the question.

“Why‘re you here...?” He slurred, closing his eyes again and breathing deeply.

“Mycroft called us.” She replied, ready to berate her son if he protested. They were his parents, and they should be there for him. _Needed_ to be. Sherlock opened his eyes again, trying to sit up a bit, but the movement caused him to cry out, his breaths coming out ragged and the beeps of the heart monitor increasing. Mrs Holmes grasped his hand once again, panicked by the pain on her son’s face, knowing there was nothing she could do. Mr Holmes gives into the need to comfort his son and puts a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, just breathe and stay calm. It must hurt, I know, but all you have to do is breathe.” His words came out calm, but he felt the complete opposite on the inside. It had been a long time since he had taken control of a situation, but with his wife being a total flake, he had always seem to react better in one. Though she had a furious temper when angry.

Eventually Sherlock’s breathing slowed and he slumped back onto the bed, face still creased in pain. His mother stroked his cheek once again until finally Sherlock’s features become calm and he slips into sleep once again. Mr Holmes lightly patted his son’s arm before removing his hand, while his wife pushed back his curls, tears once again in her eyes.

“I’ve always loved his hair.” She murmurs, her affection and love for her son almost radiating off her. Mr Holmes comes and sits next to her on the bed, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the cheek as finally her tears fall.

She needs a while, and so does he, to get over the shock of seeing their son so…pale and so pained. Parents want to protect their children from the worst, Mycroft had always seemed to manage somehow but Sherlock didn’t have his brother’s composure. Of course, he was as cool and collected as Mycroft at times, but there seemed a spirit within him that made him more….human, more prone to sentiment. And in his parents’ eyes, this made him even more perfect.

“Oh for goodness sake,” his wife exclaimed after a while, wiping her eyes and getting up from the bed. “It’s terribly dismal in here, let’s open the blinds….”

Mr Holmes smiled from the bed, watching his wife sweep around in that way of hers. As Sherlock’s parents, they had always had to cope with his troublesome ways, but this time it wasn’t really his fault. Yet here they were again, coping.


	6. Irene Adler

The buzz of her phone woke Irene Adler from her half slumber on her couch, and she sat up swiftly, thankful for something, whatever news it was. She was extremely bored here, residing for now in a small village in the Netherlands, not far from Amsterdam. This was her current hiding place, hiding from humanity, from those who despised her, those who thought her already dead. Only one man knew she was alive. A man who she desired above all others, who had brought her to her knees and made her beg for mercy when she thought she had won, thought she had brought a nation to _its_ knees (She believed it a shame that his actions had not been literal). But then, after all that, he had saved her life. He had no idea she was here though, they had not been in contact for months. And now this was her first news of him.

Her bright screen told her shot. Sherlock Holmes shot. Critical condition. Stable. Hospital. Shooter unknown. Irene re-read the text five times, hoping that there might be some more information lurking where she had not seen it. She read of Charles Magnussen; she had stayed out of his way when she had been in business. The man was foul; she did not ever want to know what he ‘liked’. The idea of _her_ Sherlock Holmes mixed in with the likes of him repulsed her.

She wants to go to him, wants to sit at his bedside and stroke those absolutely gorgeous locks of his and hold his hand. But she knows she can’t. It is not safe for her in London, not when so many people could recognise her, when she can’t trust anyone. She could wear a disguise, but as she’d said before: _‘it's always a self-portrait.’_ She was sure to be spotted.

She replies to the text Kate, ever faithful Kate, who has been updating her on the situation in London, thanking her and demanding more news before discarding her phone and lying on her side.

Her heart is beating faster then normal and a course of adrenaline runs through her as she waits, manicured nails drumming on the soft material beneath her. To her, Sherlock Holmes will always be _the_ man, the man who stole her heart with his mind and his voice and his cheekbones. His nose was a delicious feature too. And his eyes….they held all his arrogance, his smugness, his intelligence. All the things that made her, in her own secret way, adore him. She would never admit it to him so frankly, but he already knew. That had been her undoing, of course. She had been impressed by the way he had read her measurements, even more so that he had noticed in the first place. But then, he was very observant.

She smirks at herself, pulling her cardigan around her closer; no more sumptuous outfits for Miss Adler now. Though she can still wear her battle dress, thank goodness. She finds it funny that the _great_ dominatrix still goes a little weak at the knees at the thought of Sherlock Holmes. She has always seen herself as the superior in anything, going above anything and anyone, but he makes her feel _inferior_. She had thought she had beaten him, won the game. She smirks at herself once again. How _wrong_ she was.

Her phone buzzes again, and she grabs for it.

_‘Sherlock will  most definitely make recovery. Brother in search of shooter. K’_

Irene sighed, keeping her phone loosely held in her hand. She was glad; she wouldn’t want to lose him, even if he wasn’t actually hers, had never been hers. Theirs was a strange relationship; seemingly it was more of a competition of who could outsmart the other the most. She had faked her death, him his (thanks to Jim Moriarty). And now here she was again, hiding when she was supposed to be dead, beheaded. And of course he himself had tried to equal her once more. She could only revel in the satisfaction that she had beaten him and be thankful she had. But she really _should_ congratulate him on staying alive. Smiling to herself she jumped up quickly from the couch and grabbed her coat.

                                                                               ***

It would not be until a few days later when a parcel arrived on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. When Mrs Hudson would frown in curiosity at the spindly handwriting and the foreign postage stamp. The parcel was small, and labelled _‘delicate’_. It was addressed to one Sherlock Holmes.

                                                                               ***

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s signature call came a little quieter than usual; she didn’t want to disturb Sherlock if he was sleeping. His lazy gaze landed on her however and she smiled, taking the seat by his bed. His hospital room was bright, and her flowers were making a pleasant feature.

“Mrs Hudson.” He muttered. He was still far too pale, and he looked pained, much to Mrs Hudson’s concern.

“Hello, dear! How are you feeling?” Sherlock just snorted slightly and rolled his eyes. She took this as an indication that her question was stupid. “This arrived for you today, dear.” She placed the package on his stomach. “Thought you might like something to cheer you up.”

“Thank you.” He muttered, but his attention was already on the parcel and he was frowning. Mrs Hudson just watched as he examined it.

The writing was a woman’s, and the postage stamped indicated the Netherlands. His fingers were clumsier than usual thanks to the drugs, but he managed to tear open the top of the parcel. As soon as he had done so, a sharp and perfumed smell descended on the room. Mrs Hudson made a noise of disgust, protesting “That’s a bit strong.”

Sherlock however was smiling; he would recognise that perfume anywhere. Opening the parcel further he peered in, and brought out from shrouds of pink tissue paper a red rose, upon which a note was attached which read: ‘Get well soon, Mr Holmes’.  Sherlock just smirked and once again rolled his eyes. _The_ woman.

 

 


	7. John

This was typical. Really bloody typical. John really should have seen this coming. Out of all the things Sherlock could do, he had to choose to get shot, didn't he? It wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault, he never asked to be shot (he didn't think), but the git just had to stick his nose into other people's problems and this was the outcome.

John never thought he would admit it, but Mycroft had been right. Sherlock should never have got himself involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man was an absolute creep, violating his power to exploit people and their private matters. And peeing in the fireplace? John had thought Sherlock was taking this case just to vex Mycroft, but surely the idiot wouldn't run the risk of getting himself shot to annoy his brother, would he? Or was the shooting unexpected? Something Sherlock hadn't thought was a risk?

"You're a fool," he muttered, staring at the sleeping form of Sherlock, taking in the paleness of his skin and the disturbing stillness of his body. "I'm not even going to thank you for not dying on me 'cause I'm still too angry at you for getting shot."

John knew, of course, that Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, too exhausted and drugged up to stay awake for long. He remembered when he had been shot; the blinding white pain, every pain receptor aflame... And then the days afterwards; a blur that would never clear in his mind, caused by the drugs now flowing in Sherlock's veins.

John got up to close the blinds, the sunset over London irritating his eyes somewhat with its blinding quality. This time last night, John had been on his way to Magnussen's alarmingly big office building, his mind on Sherlock and what the hell the man was doing. Now, his mind was once again on Sherlock, but on what the man  _had_  been doing. What had occurred to cause him to be shot? John could name a few reasons Sherlock could piss someone off enough to make them punch him, but shoot him? This whole situation was giving John one hell of a headache.

"You seriously scared me this time, Sherlock. Getting shot, that was….a bit not good." He paused for a moment, and then scoffed. "Then again, who am I to talk?"

John Watson was not one to let emotions overwhelm him, but Sherlock just had to disprove this fact and lead John down a path of turmoil and throw him into a pool of anxiety and dread. But then, that's how Sherlock did things; dramatically. So John had braced himself, sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room many hours ago, for the grief that may come from Sherlock's death, knowing how it felt, and so ready to fight against it a second time round. That was such a typical 'Sherlock' thing; making John mourn him  _twice_.

A cold hand of fear had gripped his heart when he had seen Sherlock lying on the floor of Magnussen's apartment, it had tightened when he had seen the bullet hole, and had seemingly suffocated him when Sherlock's vitals had dropped further and further and he had been rushed off to surgery _,_ without so much as a goodbye, and John had been left stranded, feeling totally at loss as to why what had just happened had happened.

John was glad that Greg had found him, hunched over on a waiting room chair, and sat with him for those hours that dragged, increasing his anxiety with the ignorance and helplessness John had felt with every passing minute.

The doctor had arrived just in time, for he had thought he couldn't bear anymore waiting. It had been hours, and he had consumed too much disgusting coffee, the caffeine fuelling his dark thoughts. Sherlock dead. Once again. For good this time. And then the doctor had said 'pulled through'. 'Flat-lined', but still alive. Alive. John could have almost wept with happiness (he wouldn't though), the angry monster of fear abated somewhat by relief and joy. The bloody sod had performed another miracle.

* * *

And now he was here, hours later, having not left the hospital in all that time, too sleep deprived for his own good. Sherlock had had many visitors and his heart had warmed somewhat seeing the number of people concerned about his best friend. It was getting late; he'd have to go soon, visiting hours coming to an end. And the thought of sleeping in a hospital chair was unappealing. Sherlock would cope on his own. Thinking of the incident with the drug den the previous morning, John didn't believe his own words. But then again, what had Sherlock been doing the past two years he was dead? Well, not bothering to think about John feelings apparently (though that was nothing new), but John had no clue as to whether he had been helped by anybody or had worked alone. He knew Mycroft would've supplied him with help, but the thought of Mycroft going off and doing….legwork almost made John giggle. Sherlock, after all these years, was still something of a mystery to John.

"Jesus, Sherlock, this whole thing seems…surreal. I haven't seen you in weeks and then….you can't stand life being boring, can you?" he said for the sake of saying something.

John looked down at his lap, breathing deeply, collecting his thoughts to put into words. He wasn't even sure why it mattered; Sherlock probably couldn't hear him anyway. But then again, who knew with him. But john couldn't stand being alone with the beeping of the heart monitor any longer.

"I'm not about to go all…sentimental on you, god knows you probably wouldn't get it anyway, but….." John coughed, figuring out how to say what he wanted without sounding like a besotted teenage girl, "what you said at my wedding, that was….well, something I didn't think you'd ever say, let alone admit you had _feelings_ , but ermm…." John knew he was babbling and that, if he was conscious, Sherlock would roll his eyes and stop listening, "just… thanks, it was nice. Well, the almost murder wasn't. Oh yeah, you owe me a Wednesday." John chuckled a little, although slightly vexed about Sherlock's 'experiment'. What did he expect, though? The man himself just kept sleeping, eyes moving slightly beneath his eyelids.

John sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes glanced at the newspaper that he had bought in the hospital shop earlier that day. Sherlock's face was plastered over the front, and inside were written sordid stories about his best friend, claiming him to be a druggie. Another paper had written that Sherlock was 'unstable', and John had thrown it down angrily, frightening an old lady in the shop. John could only guess what 'habits' Sherlock had had in his earlier life, but he didn't want his best friend's name trodden into the gutter anymore than it had been. For two years, Sherlock had been the fake detective fraud, something John pushed to the back of his mind. That time was full of a darkness he didn't want to overwhelm him again. But now….now he had Mary, the one who had given him a new light to cling to, the one who was carrying his son.

 _"_ _Christ,_ Sherlock, I'm going to be a dad. You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?" John chuckled again. The image of Sherlock with a baby was one John thought he'd never imagine, but...that was life. Things were changing at break neck speed.

Shaking his head John snapped his thoughts back to the present, the dimly lit hospital room present. John glanced at the bed, and was surprised to find Sherlock's eyes fluttering open, a frown on the man's forehead.

"Sherlock?" John called, leaning forward in his chair. Sherlock's eyes glanced unfocusedly around the room before landing on John, who gave his friend a small smile. Sherlock just blinked, looking confused.

"You're lucky; the bullet didn't hit anything serious, neither your heart nor your right lung, though it was close, too close." John stopped for a moment, taking a breath. "You're going to be fine, eventually; your readings are good. I mean, you have to be fine, you have no choice in the matter." John joked, but Sherlock just stared at him, still looking confused, and his frown increasing. John felt his own marring his forehead. "Sherlock, are you alright? Are you in pain?" John inspected the monitors; Sherlock's heart rate had increased somewhat.

Sherlock took a few moments to process John's words. It would have been comical if the situation were not as it was. Finally, he shook his head slightly, opening his mouth to speak.

"M'ry…" he whispered hoarsely.

John's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, you keep saying that." Sherlock didn't reply, just kept gazing around the room, as if searching for her. "I mean I'm sure she's flattered." John tried to catch Sherlock's attention, but the other remained agitated.

"Sherlock." John said more firmly, grasping the other man's wrist. Sherlock's gaze flicked over to him, looking as thought it was now fighting off the morphine and sleep. Sherlock must be exhausted. "It is important that you tell us who shot you, okay? Can you tell me?"

John wanted the person who had shot his best friend shut up in prison, but with the amount of death threats Sherlock received the list of suspects was lengthy. John wouldn't know where to begin, and at that moment Sherlock's well being and survival were more important to him.

Sherlock just stared at him with eyes half open, looking as though his thoughts were getting stuck before they made it to his mouth. "I….I don't…." he was becoming agitated, his heart rate increasing more. He shifted on the bed slightly, as if trying to sit up, but suddenly gasped with pain. John kept his hand on Sherlock's wrist, while he used the other to push Sherlock's shoulder back down onto the bed.

"Sherlock, stay calm, alright? Just breath…" John turned his attention to the morphine pump, still keeping his hand on Sherlock's wrist. He pushed the button to increase the flow of morphine. After a while Sherlock's ragged breathing evened out and his eyes fluttered shut. He remained tense, though, and John knew he was still awake. He hated seeing his best friend like this. Sherlock was normally so composed, when he wasn't moody with boredom, and never once had John seen him this distressed. It made his stomach clench.

"We can talk about that later, alright? Maybe you should sleep? I know how much pain you must be in right now, and believe me when I say that sleeping helps  _a lot_."

Sherlock looked barely awake now, but John suddenly felt the impulse to say something, and it was probably better if his best friend was barely conscious for it anyway.

"Sherlock, I just want you to know that your vow, well….I feel I should reciprocate it somewhat…so, I will always be there for you too, okay? You're my best friend and…I'm glad I didn't lose you." John cringed; now he really  _did_ sound like a teenage girl. He looked over at Sherlock, preparing himself for the look of bewilderment coming his way, but the man was asleep, heart rate returned to normal, breathing even. John huffed. Typical.

Suddenly overcome with a feeling of affection that wasn't manly in any sense, John grabbed his best friends hand and squeezed it tight, feeling slightly embarrassed but not caring the slightest. He smiled fondly at Sherlock, knowing this sort of thing would not have been permitted if the detective was conscious.

"I'm really glad you're still here, mate." This time, the name was not used awkwardly, but with endearment. "…I really need to know if you slept with Janine or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this story, so thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, there are seven chapters to this in total and i will be posting one a day :)


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